


the Tale of the Biscuits

by Tassos



Series: Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow [7]
Category: Farscape, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Promptfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-21
Updated: 2008-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassos/pseuds/Tassos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A <i>Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow</i> ficlet. Post Part 3, John and Ronon make biscuits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Tale of the Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

> For gigerisgod

Ronon said, “We should do something nice for Teyla.”

John blinked a couple times from his doorway and then rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said, no questions asked, and Ronon felt his shoulders drop just a bit realizing that this was why he’d ended up here. He hadn’t expected to. Teyla had been released from the infirmary earlier and to celebrate, the team had gotten together for a movie. It was almost a tradition now, one that Ronon enjoyed, just the four of them relaxing for once in the ease of each other’s company.

It had been fine. The movie appropriate mind-numbing entertainment, Sheppard and McKay less mind-numbing entertainment, and there had been the usual squabble of mini-Snickers and Red Hots between him and Rodney. Teyla had been quiet though, dozing through more than one explosion and saying her good nights as soon as the credits started. Ronon had watched her go with the feeling that, were in not for the gauze wrapped around her burns, she’d be heading for a long soak. That’s when he’d first suggested doing something nice for Teyla to Sheppard and McKay, but his teammates had both shifted uncomfortably and Rodney said he didn’t think Teyla would appreciate flowers.

John, amid the mess that littered his quarters, was getting his boots and knives.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked when he was ready and they set out down the hall.

Ronon shrugged. He’d been trying to think of something since leaving the rec room and so far had come up with nothing.

“Ok. Food first then. I’m starving. Damn, what time is it? There won’t be any good stuff left, will there?”

Ronon shrugged. “We’ll just go to the kitchens.”

John gave him a sideways, suspicious look. “The kitchens are closed. With a padlock.”

Ronon just grinned. The padlock was to keep the scientists from eating them out of supplies on all nighters. “Don’t be negative.” When they got to the mess hall, Ronon led the way out to the balcony and the end closest to the kitchens.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” said John when he caught on to how Ronon got around the padlock. The kitchens had a balcony, too, about ten strides away from the one they were standing on. The tricky part was keeping your balance on the narrow ledge that was the only way across. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad, and Ronon thought it was easier at night when he couldn’t see the ocean below. “You’re insane,” said John as Ronon climbed over the railing.

“I’m insane?” He stopped and raised an eyebrow at John. “C’mon. Stop being a pussy.”

“Frell.”

Ronon, already inching his way across with the wind picking at his clothes, smiled. John cursed the whole way across and muttered to the voice in his head that yes, this was a stupid idea and to shut up about drowning. “We’ll probably die from the impact anyway.” Ronon gave him a hand to grab onto for the last few feet. He was still grinning, and John, resisting a smile, pointedly ignored him by waving a hand over the door sensor. “You’re lucky food is worth that,” he said.

Ronon didn’t know what he was complaining about. It was a much more fun way of getting into the kitchen than the front door.

John hit the lights as he did a circuit of the room. The Ancestors design was alien but the kitchen still had sinks and counter space, refrigeration and a pantry, ovens and stoves after a fashion, and the Marines who handled cooking duties had added racks and cupboards that rounded out the room. Ronon watched John poke his head everywhere for a minute before grabbing his elbow and dragging him to the pantry. It didn’t really look like a pantry Ronon used to know. There were more crates than shelves and it was too clean but the chocolate chip cookies were in the third crate on the right, two up, and the beef jerky was in the crate beside it.

John accepted a package of each when Ronon handed them to him, twisting his arm around to read the packaging. “What we need is bacon. That’s what we should have. And cheese grits.”

“What are grits?”

“Kinda like oatmeal but made from a different grain. And way better.”

“Then why don’t we have them?”

“Most people hate ‘em.” Ronon jumped down from the crate he was using as a step-stool, a little confused, but John just shrugged. “It’s a cultural thing,” he said. “Where I’m from, it’s comfort food.”

Ronon grabbed the package of cookies and tore it open. “What, like ice cream?”

“Yeah.” John was poking through the rest of the crates, opening them one after another. The ones from Earth were still in order, stored for when their local supplies grew thin. “Except closer to home.” He glanced up from his crouch, eyes meeting Ronon’s the way they sometimes did with more behind them that Ronon was never sure he understood. “It’s part of home.” But that Ronon did understand.

When he was running, on lean days when he could feel his stomach cramping, he’d dream of his mother’s flat bread or Melena’s deos soup on winter mornings. Some days it was so real he could taste it. Others it tasted like ashes.

“We should make something for Teyla.” John’s voice had shifted gears so Ronon ate another cookie wondering what it was John was pulling out. Two tubs of white powder so far and a box of salt. He was pretty sure none of it had much in common with Athosian cooking which seemed to consist of mostly meat and beans whenever Ronon visited them.

“I don’t know how to make anything Athosian,” said John when he mentioned it. “Do you?

“Can’t really cook,” said Ronon. “I can do stuff on a fire,” he added at John’s look, “but it doesn’t mean it comes out good.”

“Time you learned then. C’mon.” John handed him the tub labeled baking powder and went back into the main kitchen, putting down the rest of the supplies before diving into the refrigeration unit. Ronon grabbed his jerky and followed, bemused.

John was in his zone, the one where all else faded except the work in front of him only now it was flour and, “Butter, there has to be butter somewhere . . . Jackpot!” He twisted around to face Ronon with a wide smile. “Now we know why the door’s locked,” he said, holding up a case of beer.

“Sweet!” Ronon took charge of the beer and went in search of a bottle opener while John continued looking for butter. By the time he turned up with two sticks and a can of milk, Ronon had wedged the hilt of one of his knives under the cap but it kept slipping.

“Here. Let me show you a trick.” John swapped the butter for the beer bottle and put the cap against the counter. A quick snap of his wrist and the neck cracked, the beer fizzing over his hand and onto the floor. “Dammit,” John said, dancing back while Ronon laughed at him. He saw what John had tried to do and with his own beer, neatly popped the cap. “Show off.”

“It’s probably easier when you were drunk.” Ronon slapped him on the back and went to find him a glass.

John put everything he’d found together on the counter and got out bowls and spoons and a few things Ronon didn’t recognize. He’d started talking to himself again when Ronon handed him a coffee mug. It was another of those things that Ronon wasn’t sure he understood. That John was crazier than he’d ever been was certain – well, debatable. Seven years, and he’d talked to himself too, but he’d never had anyone talk back. John hid it around the others most of the time now that he’d settled a bit, but sometimes when the two of them were alone he let slip. Ronon chose to take it as a compliment and tried not to worry about it too much. After all, John hadn’t spent nearly as much time as Ronon had slaughtering Wraith while he was on the run.

“Okay, come here.” John grabbed his wrist and dragged him over to the bowl and handed him a cup with a handle on it. “Two cups of flour,” he directed. “Don’t dump it, shake it out like this.” He snapped his wrist back and forth so the flour scattered over the sides into the bowl. “Now the butter. Knead it together with your hands – wait, wash them first.”

The butter was too cold to mix easily and only John’s, “gently, gently. Don’t want it too dense,” over his shoulder kept him from getting impatient.

“What are we making?”

“Biscuits.” John was already doing something else in the pantry. “It looks like we only have grape jelly. You wanna make jam?”

“You know how?”

“No.” John came back out with a bag of apples and a can of jelly. “Can’t be too hard. Anything you want to do?”

Ronon had no idea how to make flat bread. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. The butter was warming now, squishing between his fingers and finally sticking to the flour. “Cookies?” he suggested.

“Chocolate chip – no peanut butter!” John disappeared back into the pantry.

“What do I do now?” Ronon called after him.

John came out with even more tubs of white powders. “Add a little bit of this,” he pointed to the baking powder. “Salt, then slowly add the milk.” He ended up helping with it, and soon they had dough that Ronon was lightly kneading. It took a while to find a rolling pin and John ended up using a knife to cut out circles that he then laid on a baking tray and slid into the oven. That’s when John stopped, hand hovering over the Ancient controls. “I can’t remember how hot it’s supposed to be.”

“Just needs heat, right?” Ronon shrugged, reaching for his beer. “Just make it hot enough.”

They started making cookies next. John couldn’t quite remember the recipe for peanut butter cookies so they made dough for chocolate chip too, only they couldn’t find any chocolate chips.

“We could take them out of those,” John nodded at the package by Ronon’s elbow, which was clearly a stupid idea. “Or not.” He drained his beer and went to get another. That was about when the oven exploded.

“What the hell!” said Ronon. His hand had automatically gone to his hip but his gun wasn’t there. On the other side of the room, John was in a similar crouch, blades drawn. Cautiously he approached, a waft of hot air accompanying the smell of warm dough when he opened the door. The whole inside was covered in exploded dough.

“Huh.”

“What happened?” asked Ronon.

“How much baking power did you put in?”

“I don’t know. You said some.”

“Well, how much was some?”

Ronon shrugged. “I just poured some in. You didn’t really say.”

“Next time use less.”

“We’re doing it again?” Ronon raised a doubtful eyebrow. They’d failed pretty spectacularly, and they were relying on John’s memory here.

“You want biscuits, don’t you? C’mon, Betty Crocker. Let’s go again.” John didn’t give him a chance to reply, just pushed him toward the biscuit bowl.

The second batch of biscuits went much better than the first. They didn’t explode. But they were hard and dry, and John threw his at Ronon’s head.

“Hey!”

“I could brain Wraith with these,” said John.

“Yeah, if you could aim!” Ronon grabbed another off the tray, and threw it back. For some reason, it hit John in the ear instead of between the eyes, but that probably had something to do with the light buzz he was feeling. He barely dodged in time to miss the disaster that was the peanut butter cookie dough. Well, most of it. The part that didn’t land on the floor ended up in his hair and on his shoulder, warm and runny. It hadn’t solidified at all in the oven. John had no idea what was up with that.

“Biscuits!” John shouted even as Ronon covered him in flour. “We need that for the biscuits!”

“You make the biscuits!”

“Fine. But you stay away from the cookies.”

The cookie dough, in Ronon’s mind, was a lost cause, but he ignored John anyway and added this and that and then had the brilliant idea of adding a lot of baking powder. “Hey, what did you say baking powder reacts with?”

“Vinegar,” said John, without looking up from the biscuits.

“What’s it look like?”

“Liquid. It’s in the pantry.” He did look up then, a question on his face.

“Just wondering,” said Ronon. “’Nother beer?” When John nodded, he cracked open a fresh one for both of them and went to look for the vinegar.

John was still cutting out the circles when Ronon poured the vinegar in. The mixture fizzed and bubbled, then exploded in his face, making Ronon stumble back, blind and pawing to clear the gunk out of his eyes. He couldn’t see and there was a weird noise coming from John and he was probably hurt from the explosion. A part of his brain told him that was ridiculous, but the shock of adrenaline and the fuzz between his eyes discounted it, not panicking, not panicking at all, but it still took him a second to blink back into the kitchen and it wasn’t till he rushed over and pulled him up that he realized John was doubled over in laughter, not pain.

John’s head sank onto Ronon’s shoulder as his own shook uncontrollably. “You look . . .” he started, glancing up and losing it again. From the way he felt, Ronon could guess, laughing too, because now that the, okay, panic was gone, Ronon couldn’t help but be caught up in John’s laughter. Besides, exploding food!

Somewhere between John putting the third batch of biscuits in the oven and the two of them sliding to the floor still laughing, Ronon acknowledged that they were probably drunk. It felt pretty darn good though, sitting shoulder to shoulder with John who had absorbed some of Ronon’s mess.

“I like this cooking thing,” he said after a minute.

“Baking.” John wiped at his eyes, sitting back with a content sigh when he could see again.

Ronon elbowed him. “Whatever. Where’d you learn?”

“My grandma,” said John. “I was visiting one summer on my own. My sisters were off,” he waved a hand vaguely, “I don’t even know . . .So it was just me and her. She was always baking. Never had a store bought slice of bread in the house. But she had arthritis pretty bad then, so I was her hands.” The fingers of his left hand traced the tendons on his right. Ronon watch as his hands turned, touching on scars and calluses. A history of violence that had once been an old woman’s salvation.

“My mother used to bake,” he said, eyes not leaving those hands. “Flat bread. It was crusty and dark and best when you ate it hot. She’d make it in the mornings every few days and I’d wake up to the smell and it was as if the day was already better because of it.” Ronon could almost feel the sunlight through his childhood bedroom, or the patter of summer rains. “She made Reka cake too for holidays. It’s sweet with fruit and everyone in the neighborhood went out and ate together in the streets. There were competitions to see whose was the best and she won once, even though hers was always best.” Ronon stopped and stared at the oven that was nothing like the earthen colored ceramic of his mother’s. He didn’t do this. The past was gone, lost, a wisp of a memory that he’d left behind in order to survive. But John was silent and solid beside him, and his grandmother’s biscuits smelled just like his childhood.

Neither one of them said anything else until the biscuits were done. This time they were perfect. John moaned in delight and Ronon let his melt on his tongue, hot enough to burn. They opened the last of the beer to celebrate, and John talked about all the things you could eat with biscuits – gravy, not-grape-jam, eggs, cheese, sausage, fried chicken, gravy – while Ronon ate one after the other until he was full to bursting.

A while later, halfway into a doze, he said, “We should make more for Teyla.”

“Later. Just before she gets up.”

“They’re best when they’re hot,” Ronon murmured. The kitchen was warm from the oven and his eyes slipped closed again.

He woke when John shifted away from him. It was still dark outside, and his head felt groggy.

“Here.” John held out a hand for him to pull him to his feet. He looked like he’d been awake for a while, but Ronon didn’t ask. Instead, he hunted around for the mixing bowl while John hunted around for the ingredients. They mixed up the dough together in silence, dancing around each other seamlessly as if they’d been practicing for years, and a little while later Ronon was sliding the tray into the oven.

“Should we try to clean up?” asked John after they both had stared at the oven for a minute.

Ronon blinked up at the disaster around them. The counter was covered in tubs of flour and sugar, salt, and baking powder. Two cans of milk were sloppily open, the apples and their aborted attempt to make jam sat on the far end. The remains of Ronon’s exploding cookie dough were everywhere, covered in a sheen of flour. John was powdered in white and Ronon felt the itching need to shower. “No,” he said. He grinned back when John chuckled.

Ronon found a box for the biscuits and between the two of them they got it safely across to the other balcony as dawn was just beginning to peak across the horizon. Rosy purples and soft blue edged out the night. It was beautiful.

It was getting close to the morning shift change, so they dropped the biscuits in front of Teyla’s door – taking a couple each for the road – and split off back to their own quarters.

“Running?” Ronon called, walking backwards down the corridor to the transporter.

“Swimming,” John answered. “East pier.” Ronon grinned. Swimming was a great idea.

Later, after swimming and a nap and a shower, Ronon found his team in the mess where breakfast was being served very, very late. He only shrugged when Rodney demanded where he’d been and told him all about the hooligans who broke into the kitchen and destroyed the security files after they’d done it.

“They drank all the beer the Marines were hiding in there too,” said Sheppard when McKay paused for breath.

“That sucks,” said Ronon with a straight face. He glanced at Teyla who merely raised an eyebrow in return, not quite disguising the smile hovering around her lips. She looked much better than she had last night, rested and content over her mug of tea.

“I had breakfast already,” she said when she caught his glance down, the smile slipping out.

“Only she won’t tell us what or when or why she didn’t invite us,” said McKay.

“Or with whom,” added Sheppard slyly.

Ronon grinned. “Was it good?”

Teyla didn’t answer right away, one hand reaching out to pull something out of Ronon’s hair. It was a blob of cookie disaster he’d missed earlier. “Yes. It was very good.” She had that knowing look in her eye as she tilted her head, the smile blooming in full. “It reminded me of home.


End file.
